


nemesis

by gryffindormischief



Series: Harry Potter AUs! [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Professor Harry Potter, Quidditch, harpy ginny weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 05:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: What's better than winning a Quidditch game?





	nemesis

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble prompt from tumblr that turned into a one shot! Hope you like :)

Ginny’s never been an easy mark.  Most people assumed it was a learned trait after growing up the youngest of seven, but it was more an inherited gift from mother to daughter.  And something she’d prided herself on since the first time she outfoxed Fred and George with one of their ‘genuine’ exploding snap decks. 

But that all changed when a certain blonde haired, blue eyed Weasley showed up with freckles on her cheeks and a blood thirst on the Quidditch pitch.  It’s off season for the Harpies when eleven-and-a-half year old Victoire sidles up next to Ginny at one of the weekly family dinners and lays her head against Ginny’s arm with a sigh.  “Maman says our coach quit.”

Ginny hums, half her attention enjoying as Percy becomes the new target of Fred and George’s enchanted water balloons complete with voice changing capabilities.  “When’s practice?”

“Never.”

Frowning, Ginny turns and upsets Victoire from her perch.  “What do you mean, ‘never’?”

“All the parents are too busy and Dad offered but - ”

“He’s a shite player - don’t tell him I said that,” Ginny eyes Fleur lingering with Molly near the dessert table, “Or your mum that I swore.”

“You should hear her when I slam the door while there’s a souffle in the oven.”

With a laugh, Ginny throws an arm around Victoire’s shoulders and takes one last swig of her Butterbeer.  “Before I say anything, I would like to go on record that this is probably your most unsubtle work yet.”

Victoire smirks, “Finesse is secondary to getting the job done.”

“Someday, we’ll get you both.  Can’t rely on your natural strengths alone.”

“Sounds like something a coach might say,” Victoire says, innocent tone accompanied by wide blue eyes blinking casually.

Dragging Victoire in and ruffling her messy waves, Ginny groans.  “When’s the season start?”

Squealing and exclaiming in excited French, Victoire nearly tackles Ginny to the grass, finally transitioning to English as she drops back against the soft green blades and sighs, “Now we can  _ finally  _ beat Coach Potter and the Marauders.”

“Less than a minute in and I’ve already got a rival?”

“We’re going to smoke ‘em.”

Ginny regrets hearing those words the following Saturday when she sees her little group of hotshots and realizes their coach probably quit as a public service.  Perhaps she’s being punished for being a terrible aunt - she really should’ve been to a game by now.

Victoire is great, as expected.  Ginny’s seen her in enough pick up games at the Burrow to know as much.  But her teammates - well Ginny’s just glad to learn Victoire’s not a little snotty stuck up Quidditch prodigy.  Which is a feat, because it seems half the team is afraid of touching a broom and the other is allergic to any and all balls associated with the game.  

They seem eager enough to try, and Ginny’s not one to turn away from a challenge, so she blows the whistle slung around her neck - a ‘go get ‘em’ gift from her Dad - and trots out onto the little field close to the coast of Cornwall.

And somehow over the next month, in a feat worthy of a feel good sport film, Ginny and the Pixies manage to actually get  _ good _ .  The first game is mere days away and they're wrapping up their last practice when Fleur arrives with refreshments.

In honor of their hard work over the last month, Ginny blows her whistle and ends practice a few minutes early, though she does treat them to a rousing speech about doing their best and how proud she is of their progress and team work, et al.  

It's all inspiring enough, and Ginny finds herself readying to leave practice with a spring in her step. 

Garish orange and green uniforms - courtesy of their sponsors at Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes - are distributed to each parent until the field is bare and Ginny realizes she really is a bit nervous.

Not in the traditional or expected way - thinking about scores and winning and whatever else.  Or even the thoughts that occur to her in the days before Harpy games; career prospects and contracts and headlines.

It's more a realization that on some small scale over the last weeks she's become a part of forming these little menaces. 

When they think back on their childhood, Quidditch will be a part of it.  And by extension, so will she. Sure, by then it might be a blurry and vague orangey memory of their coach, but one wrong or right move could change things for any one of them.

Which is empowering, but also terrifying, so Ginny ends up in a little Muggle pub just a few blocks from her flat in Wales, nursing a pint and mindlessly popping peanuts. 

It's dimly lit, the little hole in the wall drinking spot, and dingy to boot.  But the crowd tends to be friendly and oddly devoid of the ‘I came here with  _ one thing  _ in mind crowd,’ so Ginny's become something of a regular.

In fact, she's never had to fend off any creeps, mostly finding herself in the company of fatherly types grabbing a pint with their mates and chatting about the latest match.

Honestly, the whole neighborhood had drawn her in after she started her flat search, the perfect balance between big city convenience and the comfort of a small town.

This crowd is more likely to row over a bridge game than try to pick her up.

Which is why the tall dark and bespectacled interloper that appears at her table is so shocking.

He's got one hand free - the other carefully holding a tumbler of something amber - and can't seem to decide what to do with it.

First, it was in the hair, but he regrets that almost immediately and goes for a meaningless adjustment if he aforementioned specs.

Then he does this odd bit of hesitation in the middle before tapping at the tabletop and taking a deep breath.  “Are you - are you Ginny Weasley?”

Her eyes narrow, “Depends who wants to know.”

“I’m quite a big fan,” Harry blurts, terror showing almost immediately in his eyes as he mutters half to himself, “Shite, I sound like a creep,” and finally making eye contact he grinds out, “Let me just.  Bye.”

He turns to go and Ginny rolls her eyes, perhaps she  _ has  _ become a soft touch, and gestures to the bench across from her.  That blush is too cute not to investigate further. “Have a seat, so long as you're not press.”

He grins and she'd be lying if she said her heart didn’t thrum a bit.  “Nah, just a lowly Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

She eyes him slowly as he claims the offered place.  “You’re a bit young.”

“First term starts in September.  I was an auror for a bit but - ”

“You’re Harry Potter,” Ginny finishes, “Put away that would-be group of Grindelwald sympathizers and retired?  I’d have thought your meteoric rise at the Ministry was up next.”

Harry hums and takes a sip of his drink, the melting cubes clinking against the polished glass.  “It was, well, could have been. Then I thought about it - what it would mean, what my life would be, and I realized I didn’t want success to be determined by how much power I managed to claim.”

His eyes are distant as he makes rings on the table with his glass.  “I figured, there’s more than one way to fight the dark arts.

Harry’s expression turns bashful, where it was full of fire and passion only moments earlier, and Ginny finds she likes both sides of her drink-crashing mate.  “Sorry - I guess you’ve made me nervous.”

Smiling, Ginny takes another swallow of her drink and tilts her glass in his direction.  “I’ll do you the favor of not reciting your CV as reference for why your fear of me is so odd.”

“Much obliged.”

Stomach rumbling, Ginny glances at her wrist watch and bites her lips.  She was a Gryffindor, after all. “I’m going to stick around for some fish and chips if you’re interested.”

Face relaxing, Harry settles back against the booth.  “Food here any good?”

“Greasy and delicious.”

“Sign me up.”

They order, chatting easily as they wait for their plates, until Harry fiddles with his silverware and asks, “So is it coincidence, or are you deliberately avoiding discussion of your career?”   
“You’re the auror.”

He laughs.  “Retired.”

There’s a pause as their moderately interested waiter delivers their entrees and refills their water glasses, continuing as they doctor their meals to taste - Harry’s definitely a fan of malt vinegar - before Ginny relents.  “I guess, I’m always very  _ aware  _ of talking about myself.  It’s a mix of the threat of undercover press and that nagging feeling that no one really wants to hear what I’m saying?  I dunno, like it’s selfish or arrogant.”

“Well in this case, I’m definitely not press and I’m asking for you to boast and brag as much as possible before I finish my chips,” Harry says with a grin, spearing a forkful of his side salad.

Laughing, Ginny swallows a bite of flaky fish.  “You asked for it.”

* * *

 

And like Ginny hasn’t experienced in a long time - or maybe never - the evening passes with flowing conversation, a lot of refilled drinks, and probably too many orders of chips in order to be considered strictly healthy.  As the dinner crowd filters out, Harry and Ginny settle their tab and wander out onto lamp lit streets.

Ginny walks toward her flat habitually and Harry follows half a step behind, nudging his glasses up a bit nervously before he breaks the temporary silence.  “So, I - this probably sounds strange but I’d really like to see you again and I’ll be back in Wales for my godson’s quidditch game this weekend - ”

“Holy -  _ Potter _ .”

“I can’t tell whether that’s a compliment or you’re calling me shite.”

Ginny comes to a halt and does an about face, crossing her arms as she stares down her sort-of date.  “You’re the  _ enemy _ .”

“The - what?  Aren’t you all professional and whatnot?”

Tapping at her chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness, Ginny settles on a scowl.  “I’m professional in my level of competitiveness. It’s off the damn charts and you’re going  _ down _ , Potter.”

“This evening has taken such an odd turn,” Harry muses, even as his lips lift in a wry grin, “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it though.”

Ginny’s mouth opens and closes around a non-sentence.  “Victoire told me all about you  _ Marauders _ .  Cobbing like it’s nobody’s business.”

“Can I help if it the referee is clearly up to no good?”

“Arabella Figg is an elderly squib with about eight-hundred cats.  She never changes out of her house coat.”

“I critiqued her fruit cake and she never forgave me.”

“You and that little team of miscreants wins every time.”

Harry’s eyes darken as he takes a step closer and Ginny squares her shoulders, telling herself the heat in her face is competitive rage rather than another sort of tension.  He crosses his arms. “We’re just that good.”

“We’ll my kids are better,” Ginny shoots back, her eyes only darting to admire his chest for a reasonable amount of time.  Really.

“Care to put your arse where your mouth is?”

Ginny smirks.  “I mean I need to stretch first but - ”

Eyes narrowed, Harry releases his arms and jostles Ginny back into motion as rain begins to patter on the pavement around them in soft droplets.  “I’m  _ saying  _ a wager seems to be appropriate.  But I wouldn’t say  _ no _ to some one-on-one time that requires a bit of stretching beforehand.”

They stop at the front of Ginny’s building, the semi-effective overhang keeping most of the increasingly heavy downpour from drenching them.  “So this is me,” Ginny says, quiet, fiddling with the buttons at the front of Harry’s shirt, “I’d ask you up, but I can’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy.”

“What was dinner?”

“Espionage.”

He shuffles his feet, occasional cars speeding past, upsetting the puddles that litter the street, glistening with newly fallen rain.  “So I’ll see you on Saturday?”

Biting her lip, Ginny lets her hand fall away from Harry’s shirtfront and squeezes the tips of his chilled fingers.  An odd juxtaposition to the next words she speaks, “Yes, and your loved ones will have to soak you up with a sponge after the Pixies completely destroy you.”

“Words aren’t much without something tangible behind them.”

“How’s a fist?”

Harry’s laugh warms Ginny’s chest, and she’s nearly thrown off her little ‘witty repartee’ track, but Harry seems to have kept up.  “I was thinking a wager.”

Ginny hums, tapping her chin.  She throws out about seven options that mostly involve variations on ‘snog me silly enough that maybe my legs go all wobbly’ and eventually settles on a new idea, which is not much better.  But at least a little less obvious. “Sounds reasonable - when I win, you will follow me around Muggle London and call me pretty.”

Eyes flashing, Harry takes a slow step closer and Ginny finds her back against the rough brick siding of her building, pulse thrumming as Harry gazes down at her, glasses splattered with stray raindrops.  “And when  _ I  _ win,” Ginny raises a brow and to his credit, he barely stumbles, though his cheeks do color slightly, “When I win you and I will uh - go out on a date.  A - um, a tourist date? I’m going to pick the most touristy things to ever tourist and make you do  _ all  _ of them.”

Ginny laughs and Harry ruffles his hair.  “You’ll be begging for mercy, Weasley.”

Finally stepping away, Ginny lifts her hand to press the door open and winks.  “One can only hope.”

* * *

 

The few days between her whatever it was afternoon with Harry and the Pixies vs Marauders match are mostly filled with boring adult-type errands and last minute prep sessions with an increasingly excited Victoire.  

Finally, when Victoire floos her just after seven on Friday morning, interrupting a delicious dream about a certain peewee Quidditch coach, Ginny has a chat with her over-eager niece about getting  _ rest  _ before a game.  

Regardless of whether her advice works, Ginny’s mad dash for the panic alarm at her floo and resulting pounding heart rate leave her without the ability to doze back off.  

It’s still nice to laze about the house in her pajamas and eat a bit of a gluttonous breakfast over an old copy of  _ Witch Weekly _ .  The rest of the day is spent doing laundry, unmaking and remaking her bed, and eventually venturing out to round up some non-breakfast food related groceries.

Before she knows it, Saturday has arrived, Ginny’s tugging on her ‘COACH’ cap, looping her whistle around her neck, and apparating to Cornwall.

There’s a fairly brisk wind whipping in from the coast, a briny scent tinging the air as players and their families appear in small knots around the field, claiming seats in the stands.  Rolling back her shoulders, Ginny trots out onto the field, mounts the stairs leading up to her place in the stands, and drops her minimal supplies near the makeshift bench set up for the Pixies.

Victoire and a couple of her closer friends on the team already arrived, all three having slept at Bill and Fleur’s on the last night before their big game, and seem far from the tiredness that generally follows a pre-teen slumber party.  They’re eager enough, running drills - sans brooms - and shouting encouragement along with last minute tips. 

Ginny’s going over her notes for the game when an unknown figure blocks the sun lighting her binder.  “Alright, Coach Weasley?”

Heart thudding, Ginny takes a hopefully unnoticeable deep breath and turns to face Harry with a grin.  “Better when I kick your,” she lowers her voice, “Ass today.”

“Thinking about my ass, eh, Gin?”

For a moment, Ginny considers her options.  Denial is the obvious choice but it’s also the choice of a coward who  _ doesn’t _ want to cup Harry Potter’s tight little arse in her hands, and then some.  So Ginny raises her brows and laughs, “Always, Potter.”

“Well you should be.  It’s a work of art,” Harry shoots back.  And the little view she gets of said arse in his dorky kaki shorts verifies the claim without a doubt.

Regardless of whatever biological instinct is telling Ginny to procreate with this gorgeous, bespectacled piece of man, she’s got a higher calling.  To the integrity of peewee Quidditch, the pull of her own competitive nature, and also the knowledge that if Victoire spots her getting chatty with the enemy just before the game, Ginny’s liable to get a bilingual earful. 

Which means instead of dragging Harry off for a snog, Ginny does her best to put on an unaffected expression and toys with her clipboard.  “I’m sure. Well, Coach Potter, I hope your team is ready for a challenge.”

“No doubt, Coach Weasley,” Harry answers, and Ginny’s not imagining things when his eyes skate over her fro head to toe, the labored swallow he takes before he nods and jogs over to his gathering team.

Mrs. Figg has once again agreed to serve as the unbiased referee, releasing the snitch just moments before the Quaffle toss leaves Ginny’s team in control of the ball.  

The Pixies manage to hold their formations under the carefully crafted offensive moves of the Marauders.  Ginny’s three chasers - Benny, Rhoda, and Liam - work in shockingly effective tandem, tossing the quaffle with minimal fumbling while Victoire and Annabelle swoop in and out of view, lobbing and parrying the bludgers as they fly.

Harry’s team does admittedly seem a bit more tight, a little smoother diving between the Pixies more basic maneuvers, but the game is far from the usual cakewalk to a win the Marauders are used to.  About an hour in, they call for a half-time break, which mostly involves visiting the loo and snacking on some orange wedges before diving right back in after a slightly confused bit of warnings from Mrs. Figg involving a diagram covered in cat hair and a lot of talk about fruit cakes.

The scores were basically tied before the break (the Marauders leading 40 to 30) and Victoire assured Ginny this was the best showing anyone ever had when facing Coach Potter and his ‘minions’ - Victoire’s words, not hers.

The Pixies and Marauders do have a fair amount of light trash talk, really it’s just compliments said with a slightly nasty tone, but the game manages to avoid the usual unsportsmanlike jabs and taunts that can crop up even in the most professional settings.  

And though she’s definitely mastered the art of focusing when it matters, Ginny can’t help but let her eyes stray across the field, catching on a certain dark-haired professor-turned-coach who’s looking particularly adorable with sweatbands on his wrists and that  _ just  _ barely too tight polo shirt.  She’s not ashamed, not in the least - especially since her kids have got the lead now, fifty-forty - so when Harry turns and his gaze locks on hers, she sends him a flirty salute and turns her attention back to the field.  Victoire volleys a bludger toward Harry’s chasers, likely leaving the foremost with a rather nasty bruise and sending their carefully crafted defensive strategy scattering just as Rhoda sinks another Quaffle against the Marauders.  

Before Ginny has a chance to celebrate the minor victory little Mina is shouting as she circles overhead, nearly losing her perch as she raises her arms in - victory?

Gesturing for her to come down, Ginny clamps down the stairs while Mina’s loops bring her closer to the field.  In the interim, Harry and Mrs. Figg have both made their way to center field while play has come to a temporary halt.  

The minute Mina’s trainers hit the grass, she’s stumbling toward Ginny, definitely out of breath.  “I - I. Does it count if it ran into me?”

“Does what count?  Did they foul you?” Ginny asks, brow furrowed as she squats in front of Mina and looks her over for injuries.

Swiping at her nose, Mina shakes her head.  “No it - the Snitch. It ran right into my forehead and I thought it was a bug or something - ”

Harry snorts, attempting to muffle his laughter with his hand and Ginny somehow manages to stifle her smile.  “You caught the Snitch, Mina.”

“Well. Yes.  If it counts,” Mina hedges. 

Ginny squeezes Mina’s shoulder and stands, “You just won us a game, Mina.”

That seems to finally get the excitement to settle in and Mina runs to the center of the field, Mrs. Figg trailing behind and waving a green and yellow flag to signal the end of game play.  As the two teams make their landings, Victoire leading some sort of odd victory chant, Ginny offers Harry her hand. “Good game, Potter.”

“Same, Weasley.”

“Oh I know - I won.”

“Winners can play bad games.”

Readjusting her cap, Ginny squints at Harry and chuckles.  “See, that’s exactly the type of thing you  _ won’t  _ be saying when you escort me around Muggle London.”

They begin making their way toward the clump of prepubescent children celebrating or commiserating, depending, mid field and Harry murmurs, “I will say whatever you and that wicked mouth, dangerously deep brown eyes, and - if you don’t mind me saying - tight little arse, want me to.”

“Oddly smooth,” Ginny allows with a wink, “And you bet your boots you will.”


End file.
